Sometimes one gets unpleasantly damp out there, he repeated, laying great emphasis on every word. I looked straight at him and saw there were tears in his eyes. Now his features were all working again and twitching as they had done earlier.
There's many a boat filled up there, he added, and some have got no further. But I've floated in and out so far. Oh well, 'The silver cup sinks, but the wooden bowl floats on', as the proverb says. There was a time when I had to drag out of the water here a man who was better than me in every way—that's when I really got to know the old creek.
For a time he continued to stand there, staring out at the creek without saying a word. But, at last, after wiping the tears from his face with the back of his glove, he seemed to come to himself once more.
You were asking, my lad, what the journey costs—it costs nothing.
Nothing? What nonsense!
Not since you got wet, said Hrolfur and smiled, though you could still see the tears in his eyes. It's an old law of ours that if the ferry-man lets his passengers get wet, even though it's only their big toe, then he forfeits his toll.
I repeatedly begged Hrolfur to let me pay him for the journey, but it was no use. At last he became serious again and said:
The journey costs nothing, as I said to you. I've brought many a traveller over here to the creek and never taken a penny in return. But if you ever come back to our village again, and old Hrolfur should happen to be on land, come over to Weir and drink a cup of coffee with him—black coffee with brown rock-sugar and a drop of brandy in it; that is, if you can bring yourself to do such a thing.
This I promised him, and old Hrolfur shook me firmly and meaningfully by the hand as we parted.
As they prepared to leave, we all three, the farmers from Mular and
I, stood there on the rocks to see how Hrolfur would manage. The
crew had furled the sails and sat down to the oars, whilst old
Hrolfur stood in front of the crossbeam, holding the rudder-line.